


Save a horse, ride a cowboy

by ClaireScott



Series: Dirty Supernatural imagines [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Disabled Character, F/M, Fluff, Melancholy, Romance, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:42:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're lonely and frustrated. Dean doesn't want to see this any longer. So he takes the first step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save a horse, ride a cowboy

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. I apologize for all the mistakes.

Saturday, 11:45 p.m.  
You’re watching a stupid, frustrating rom-com, alone in the bunker. You should do some research but – it’s Saturday and if you can’t go out for a bit of fun and dancing you just want to pretend sitting in a cinema, watching a heart-melting movie. Self-deception is definitely your thing. You stare at the TV, watching the end credits, hearing the romantic-melancholic music, icky lyrics. Tears running down your face, and you wipe them impatiently away. You hear a giggling, a woman’s voice, and Dean’s laughter. He pulled a chick in the club. Bravo, Dean. Congrats. They stumbling in, kissing, they don’t take notice of you. That’s totally plain, you guess. If you would be kissed by Dean you wouldn’t notice the fucking apocalypse. You clear your throat to prevent Dean fucking his girl right beside you on the couch, and they both look up, finally taking notice of you.  
She’s wearing too much make-up. Would be enough for you both. Her hair-style is accurate, her dress is short, she’s wearing high heels and she’s absolutely able to walk like a fucking princess in them. She’s Dean’s type of girl from head to toes. You re-arrange the plaid you’re covered up with, pressing a pillow on your thighs, giving them a sweet smile.  
“Hi”, you say, “I’m (Y/N).”  
“Hi”, she answers, “I’m Savannah.”  
“Need me?” Dean asks you and you shake your head.  
“I’m okay. I watched a movie and just wanted to… go to bed.”  
“Call me when…”  
“Dean, please. Have fun, okay? I’m fine.”  
Your voice is pressed and hoarsely, probably of all that crying.  
You watch them heading to Dean’s room, hand in hand. Out of sight, the tears coming back and you hate yourself for this. You’re sitting still on the couch watching on the black screen of the TV. You wipe your tears away again, working hard on your tough front, just as you do every day for a whole year now. 

 

Sunday, 10:30 a.m. 

Sam has been successful too. He’s coming with a brunette to the breakfast table where you drinking a coffee and reading the newspapers.  
“Morning,” you mumble and she gives you a sun bright smile.  
She’s gorgeous, just as Dean’s girl.  
“Morning,” Sam answers and takes two cups out of the cupboard.  
Dean enters the room, followed by Savannah. Great. Two giggling, sexually satisfied couples and you. What a great way to start in a weekend.  
“Morning, lovelies!” Dean smiles and takes a seat. “Where’s the milk?”  
“You don’t even have a cup, dude.” Sam answers while you pretend to read an article about a newly opened shopping mall.  
Dean sighs, gets up again and helps himself to two cups. “And where’s the milk?”  
“Fridge. Where else?” You ask bugged out, not able to bear down your really, really bad mood.  
Great, that they all had fun last night. You wish you could leave, but you don’t want to feel their gazes in your back. Their pitiful, appalled gazes. You can’t do this anymore. You have to move out here. You’re sitting on your chair like someone had tied you up – you desperately want to leave, but you can’t. You wish you could be in your room, door closed, letting all these un-cried tears out. You’re trapped. In the bunker, in the kitchen. In yourself.  
After two cups of coffee Savannah and her brunette friend heading to the bathroom and you take the opportunity and get up.  
“May I help you?” Sam asks, giving you a sweet smile.  
“No. Go and help your chick with her fucking eyeliner or whatever she does.”  
“Woah, why so upset? We just had some fun last night…” Dean states and you avert his eyes.  
“And what about me and my fun? I never have some fun and I’m fed with watching other people having tons of fun.”  
“I asked you to come with us. You didn’t want,” Sam answers, shrugging.  
You give them both a killing glance. They should know why you don’t go to the clubs, in the bars.  
“Fuck yourself. Both of you.”

It felt like an eternity until you reached your room. You slam the door shut, fall on your bed and finally you are able to cry. Again. As you do habitual for one year now. Two or three or four times a day. Shut in the bunker, doing research. A golden cage full of scary stories you’re no longer part of, full of people doing your job, full of men who no longer able to see you as a woman. You’re a kind of invisible thing, only good for some research. You’re like a human becoming a kind of google.

Hey, (Y/N), can you do some research for me?  
Hey, (Y/N), where’s the milk?  
Hey, (Y/N), do we have bazooka here?  
Hey, (Y/N), I need Obama’s mobile number. Fast. It’s urgent.

The list is endless. Endless and depressing. 

Hey, (Y/N), what about going to the cinema?  
Hey, Sweetie, do you believe in love on first sight? Or shall I come in again?  
Hey, baby, I forgot my phone number, may I have yours?

Your hear your laughter, a whole life away, laughter about cheesy pick up lines. You take a look at a photo on your drawer. Two years ago. You were flirting with Dean, sitting face to face on two beds in a motel room. You both laughed as Sam took the photo.  
I was so fucking stupid, you think. I should have grab him, kiss him, making him mine, use him. But I was too busy, the hunt too difficult, too many lives in danger. We worked very hard, we had barely time for flirting. And now it’s too late. 

Sunday, 2 p. m.

The chicks are gone, finally, and you leave your room, you have to eat, you’re hungry. Dean’s coming along the hallway just as you manage the first step of the stairs.  
“Wait,” he says, gets ahead of you and stops two stairs below. “Come here, I’ll help you.”  
“I don’t want your fucking help, Dean, I don’t need your help.” You hiss, grabbing your crutches tighter.  
He gives you a thoughtful look, before he snatches one of your crutches from you and throws it downstairs. You shriek and hit him with your fist on his shoulder.  
“Hey!” Dean picks you up, lifting you as you would weigh nothing. The second crutch fall of your hand as you try to bridle. “Stop it or we will fall both.”  
“Just leave me alone. Give me my crutches and…”  
“No. We need to talk. Seriously.”  
He carries you back to your room, you’re still shrieking, struggling like an angry baby, hitting him with your fists on his back, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, wherever you can reach him.  
“Punch me in the face and I’ll punch back”, Dean hisses, grabbing your wrist and turns your arm on your back, fixating it there.  
“Hey”, Sam says as you meet him on the hallway, “May I help?”  
“No. We’re good. We just need to talk in private.”

He opens the door to your room with his shoulder, slams the door shut with his foot and throws you on your bed.  
“Goddamn it, (Y/N)!”, he hisses, “You act like a five-year-old.”  
“I don’t!”  
“You do. Even House, M.D., behaves like a little cutie pie compared to you.”  
“Get out here, Dean, bring me my crutches and go to hell!”  
“No!” He shouts, “I’m really tired of being treated like an annoying blowfly!”  
“Why you’re not able to understand that I want you to leave me alone?”  
He’s folding his arms und you punch on your pillow. You’re helpless without the crutches. You can crawl, of course, but you will rather die than crawling in front of Dean the fucking blowfly Winchester. Your legs are nearly useless, you recover very, very slow. You’ve got the feeling back and you can move them, you can walk short ways with your crutches – as fast as a goddamn slug –, but without help you’re a kind of supine beetle.  
“That’s not what you want,” he says, way more softer. “You want your life back. Going on a hunt. Dating, dancing, all these things.”  
“No shit, Sherlock!” You hiss, punching your pillow again and again.  
“Hey!” Dean says, stepping in front of you, grabbing your wrist. “Stop, okay? It’s not my fault what had happened. I tried to help you, Sam too and you act like a little shit, for a whole year now.”  
“Go.”  
He doesn’t move, he’s like a rock.  
“Okay…”, you murmur, reaching for your nightstand and open the drawer.  
“Looking for your Beretta, baby?” Dean asks tauntingly, giving you a little smile.  
“Where…?”  
“I took it, months ago. To prevent you to… something really stupid. You don’t use your drawer often, don’t you?”  
“No. Only condoms in it. And as I don’t need these things…”  
You shrug, staring at the drawer. Last chance gone.  
“Please, Dean, leave. I want…”  
You stop as you feel the mattress yielding as Dean sits down. He wraps his right arm around your shoulder, holding you tight. His left hand presses your head softly against him.  
“I remember the day…,” Dean says quietly, nodding to the photo. “We had so much fun. It was a Thursday afternoon and we had to wait until darkness. I had planned to… love you after the job, but…”  
“…but we ended up in a emergency room, getting Sam and me stitched up, we waited there for hours. I remember too. And you didn’t want to love me, Dean. That’s a lie. You wanted to fuck me.”  
“Yeah. You’re right. You’re beautiful and smart. I like that.”  
“I was. Now I’m a gimp with crutches.”  
“You’re the most beautiful gimp with crutches I’ve ever seen in my whole life. And you will be fine. It takes some time. But it gets better from month to month, right?”  
“Thank you. And yes, it gets better. But very, very slowly.”  
“(Y/N), I want to help you. We’re friends for years now and I miss your laughter. Sammy too. Wanna come with us on a hunt?”  
“I can’t help, Dean.”  
“You do the research. It’s an old hotel building, newly opened. First guest seem to be a poltergeist. Come on, join us. I've already booked two rooms.”  
“Cancel it. I don’t come with you.”  
“But I booked a king size bed. And a lumber room for Sammy.”  
“What?”  
“I booked a room. With a king size bed. For you and me.”  
“Dean…”  
He gives you gentle push. “Please. Want me to beg? To crawl?”  
“I crawl for myself, thank you.”  
Dean rolls his eyes at you and you smile.  
“Where did you want to go?”  
“Kitchen. I’m hungry.”  
“Me too.”  
Dean hunkers down in front of the bed.  
“Come on, I’ll give you a pickabag.”  
“But…”  
“It’s fun. Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”  
“You’re a dork.”  
“Yeah, maybe. But I’m your personal dork.”  
You manage to kick him with your left foot in the ribs, very soft, but it works.  
“See? Wait a few months more and you kick asses again. And until then I’ll do this for you.”  
You snort and lay your arms around his neck. Dean stands up and carries you in the kitchen. 

Monday

You’ve laughed. A lot. The whole Sunday afternoon, the whole evening. Dean carried you on his back around the bunker and you’ve enjoyed that way too much. More than could do you good. Now you’re sitting on the backseat in the Impala, listening to Dean’s and Sam’s bantering about the music.  
“Sam”, Dean says, as the Impala passes the border of Louisiana, “Just for the record: I’ve already booked two rooms.”  
“In the spooky hotel?” Sam asks and Dean shakes his head.  
“No. Too dangerous for (Y/N). She’s an easy prey for the poltergeist. In a hotel vis-à-vis.”  
“Okay. And that’s important for me because…?”  
“Because you get the lumber room, we take the suite with the king size bed…”  
“Ooookay…”, Sam answers, “You two. The suite, ha?”  
“Yeah. Any objections?”  
“Of course not.”  
“Good.”  
Dean gives you a smile over his shoulder. 

A few hours later you manage to walk from the Impala into the lift at the hotel but that’s the end. Your legs are turned into pudding and Dean hands Sam the bags he’s carrying, hunkers down and takes you on his back.  
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” murmurs Sam as he grabs your crutches before they fall on the floor. “I feel like a suitcase carrier.”  
“Thank you, Sam”, you smile and Dean presses the button for the 4th floor.  
“Sammy, I want you to go to the library, checking…”  
“Do not tell me how to do my job, cowboy,” Sam answers, rolling his eyes at his brother. “What are you gonna do?”  
“I’ll work intensively on this “Save a horse, ride a cowboy”-thing, you know?”  
“In a king size bed?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Jerk.” Sam grins and steps out of the lift as the door opens.  
“Bitch.”  
Dean carries you to your room, takes your bags and your crutches back, says “See you later” to Sam and closes the door behind you.  
“How do you feel?” He asks as he drops you on the bed and throws all the other stuff on the floor.  
“Mhm, very good. Excited. Are you sure, you want to do this? You don’t have to. It’s okay…”  
Dean’s lips touching yours and he presses you gently on your back, crawling over you.  
“I want. I should’ve done this earlier. I just have one question, just to be sure: You’re able to feel it when I touch you, right?”  
“Yeah. Everything is absolutely normal, I get wet and… can have an orgasm. It’s just my legs. They’re weak and move only slow. So, everything’s quite normal, except one thing: You can’t fuck me while I’m standing. That will not work, I guess.”  
“Okay,” Dean whispers at your lips, taking his jacket of. “Tell me, when I hurt you or when I do something wrong.”  
“Dean,” you whisper, “I’m sorry, but… do you have condoms? I’m not on the pill anymore and…”  
“Yeah. I grab some as I took the Beretta, baby.”  
“You stole my condoms?”  
“To use them with you. That’s no stealing, honey.”  
“And Savannah?”  
“Had her own condoms.”  
“You’re a bum.”  
“I’m a cowboy, baby, on a steel horse I ride…,” Dean grins and starts kissing you again.  
You feel his hand sliding under your shirt and start pulling on his shirt to take it off. He obliges and you feel his warm skin under your palms. Your tongue slides in his mouth, tasting him. You don’t know how long have you been kissing, his hand just on your belly as he starts petting you, cupping your breast.  
“(Y/N), may I help you out of all these superfluous clothes?”  
“Yes, thank you,” you smile and just a minute later you’re naked.  
You bite on your bottom lips as Dean’s gaze is wandering over all the scars on your legs.  
“Did anyone already kill this son of a bitch?” He murmurs, placing his hand beside your thigh on the sheets.  
“No. He’s somewhere out there.”  
“If I find him, I’ll do it.”  
“You won’t find him until he wants you to find him. He left his meat suit as Danny arrived. Don’t think about it.”  
“May I touch your legs? Or don’t you want to be touched there?” He asks quietly, looking you in the eyes.  
“It feels a bit strange and weird, paresthesia, you know? So, if you could concentrate on the rest of my body, that would be… you know… better… You can touch, of course, but no… not extensively. Is this okay for you?”  
“Of course, sweetheart. You make the rules, I obey.” 

Dean’s way more gently than you had expected. He’s slow and soft, communicative and nearly tentative in touching you.  
“I’m not made of sugar, cowboy,” you whisper, encouraging him a bit, “Go on, I like that.”  
As he finally thrusts into you, your nearly useless legs laid over his shoulders, his hands on your hips, you grab the sheets and buck your hips against him. Your climax nearly makes you cry, not only because it’s very intensive, but also you thought you will never have a man in your bed. And now you have one. Even one who cares a lot, who’s tender and careful, who makes you laugh and feel cherished.  
“That’s good, feels so good, honey,” Dean moans and you feel his orgasm in you, hearing his desperate panting and you smile.  
“You good?”, Dean sighs as he leaves you, falls beside you on the bed.  
“Yeah,” you whisper as he pulls you into his arms. “I’ve never felt so good since the day Sam took the photo in this Motel in Iowa.”  
“So, you’re in a flirty mood just as back then?”  
“It’s a little bit late for flirting, cowboy, you’ve fucked my already.”  
“It’s never too late for a flirt. It would be my pleasure to take you out tonight. Dinner, maybe?”  
“Here? A candlelight dinner?”  
“Uhm, no. I’m a cowboy with a steel horse. What do you think about a burger or a pizza downtown?”  
“Sounds really perfect. With Sam?”  
“If you don’t mind?”  
“No, I don’t.”  
“Okay,” Dean smiles, “That’s the plan: We grab something to eat, killing the poltergeist and doing this here again.”  
“Thank you, Dean. And sorry for being a very bad tempered version of Greg House in the last months.”  
“It’s okay. Forgiven and forgotten. Will your mood be better from now on?”  
“If I can save horses and go on with riding a cowboy?”  
“No problem, baby,” Dean answers and kisses you tenderly.


End file.
